Page 145 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The storm is still coming, but right now?

She’s safe.

And I’ll burn everything else to ash to keep her that way.

She’s light in my arms when I turn from the doorstep. Silent with exhaustion.

The kind of quiet you don’t get often—when the air still tastes like adrenaline and the world feels like it might crack if you breathe too loud.

She stirs, instincts kicking in like she should put up a fight. She’s so cute trying.

“Get away from me.”

“Never.” I hold her tighter, making it clear she’s not getting down until I say so.

I carry her inside like I was made for it.

Dexter follows like he understands.

His nails click softly on the hardwood, ears perked—not anxious. Just accepting.

She doesn’t know I’ve been coming over here. Bribing the little shit with treats. Leaving a worn shirt in his bed so he gets used to my scent.

I know exactly what she needs, and as I walk through her house with ease, she realizes it.

I’ve been here enough to know the creak of the banister, the dip in the third stair that catches her heel.

She always mutters about fixing it, but never does.

“I can walk, you know.” She tries to hide the tremor in her voice.

Her body is warm against mine, limbs heavy with the kind of grief that doesn’t make sound until it breaks.

“No, you can’t. Not like this.”

In the bathroom, I set her down gently. Like she might break—but not because she’s fragile. Because she’s sacred.

She stays where I place her, shaking. Terrified.

But she doesn’t run.

And that matters.

“Who are you?” she whispers, trying to peer around as I kneel beside the tub.

I feel her eyes on me while I turn on the water. Feel her heartbeat adjusting to mine. Slowing.

She startles when I turn to her—her breath catching like a note cut short.

“I need your clothes,” I say. Simple and controlled. But inside, I’m anything but.

Her eyes go wide before she narrows her glare. She doesn’t move.Yeah, baby, give me some of that fire.

She says, “No.” Breathless. Fractured. Like she knows she should resist but knows it’s pointless.

I lift my hand slowly—careful not to spook her. The glove comes off one finger at a time, teeth tugging leather. I want her to watch.

I want her to know I’m not in a rush.

---